


if i name it

by mayfriend



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Canonical Rape/Non-con, Dark, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson-centric, Disturbing Themes, F/M, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt No Comfort, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Nightwing (1996) #93, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 06:37:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20831015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayfriend/pseuds/mayfriend
Summary: Sometimes, he can go hours -days,even - without thinking about it. He’s seen worse, had worse done to him, to the people he loves. He still sees his parents falling almost every night, and Damian’s broken body, and Jason’s pit-mad eyes. And it’s not like he was even hurt, not like he didn’t get off, not like she drugged him or threatened him or beat him. He was just… there, and she was taking what she wanted, what his body was all too keen to give, and Nightwing - who is meant to be a hero, who is meant to be strong, who is meant to be able to protect people - let her.People have died. People havedied. What’s so bad about this, that makes him want to crawl out his own skin and leave it for crows to feast on?I don’t want it,he thinks at 2am, looking at his face in the fluorescent light of his bathroom mirror,I don’t want it, I don’t want it anymore.





	if i name it

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is really my response to Devin Grayson's comments saying that Tarantula didn't rape Nightwing in _Nightwing #93_, it was just non-consensual sex. Which is the same fucking thing as rape, which you'd think she'd know as she wrote _Nightwing #93_. That brought up some... not good feelings for me, so here's a fic written entirely out of the resulting emotions. The title is taken from Rachel Cusk's adaption of _Medea_, and I even included the quote in the actual fic as it's been going round and round in my head ever since I saw Devin's comments - it's not the perfect fit, but the general feeling behind it seems very relevant.
> 
> This is not a happy fic, there is no happy ending, and if you are triggered by any kind of references to rape, victim blaming or feelings of self-hatred, please keep yourself safe and **do not read ahead**.

_ A bad thing happened to me. You’re afraid that if I name it, it will happen to you too. _

* * *

He doesn’t tell anyone. He can’t. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know how to. He can’t bear for anyone to know, anyone to look at him and see what she did to him. He thinks about how quickly skin dies and regenerates; how really, every part of him she touched is gone now, a dozen times over. 

It doesn’t feel like that. He feels stained, and dirty, still. It feels like she’s still touching him, sometimes, like he’s still on that rooftop, half-mad and broken and lost, like her weight has never left him and never will. _ Querido, _ she called him; _ dear, darling. _He’s never been so grateful that his family never got into the habit of using terms of endearment for one another. If they did-

If they did-

They don’t. Thank god for that. Thank _ god. _

And sometimes, he can go hours - _ days_, even - without thinking about it. He’s seen worse, had worse done to him, to the people he loves. He still sees his parents falling almost every night, and Damian’s broken body, and Jason’s pit-mad eyes. And it’s not like he was even hurt, not like he didn’t get off, not like she drugged him or threatened him or beat him. He was just… there, and she was taking what she wanted, what his body was all too keen to give, and Nightwing - who is meant to be a hero, who is meant to be strong, who is meant to be able to protect people - let her. 

People have died. People have _ died. _ What’s so bad about this, that makes him want to crawl out his own skin and leave it for crows to feast on? _ I don’t want it, _ he thinks at 2am, looking at his face in the fluorescent light of his bathroom mirror, _ I don’t want it, I don’t want it anymore. _

His mum always told him he’d grow up as handsome as his father, and his dad always followed that up by saying _ if you’re lucky _ with a grin. He’s been told enough through the years that he’s attractive; by the press, by socialites, by the masses of people online who see nothing wrong with talking about him like he’s nothing more than a well-composed painting or sculpted statue. Babs and Kory and Wally all told him he was beautiful, in their own ways, and Dick never doubted them. He’s always been aware of it, in a bashful, _ aw shucks _kind of way that he never really outgrew, and always known it made things easier, because people like pretty. People _like_ pretty.

Dick wonders if she’d have done it if he was ugly. He doubts it. 

For the first time, he thinks about his face. Really thinks about it. Thinks about his grandpa’s heavy brows and his mother’s aquiline nose and his father’s blue eyes, and wonders when they became an invitation. Thinks about women in African tribes who scar their faces, about what it takes to turn your body into a warning sign. Thinks he understands. 

Catalina Flores ends up in Lockhaven without him having to do anything, say anything; unrelated charges, and ones that will keep her imprisoned for the rest of her natural life. That should be the end of it, that’s what he wants to happen, but there’s a part of her that will always exist behind his eyelids, in the dark corners of his memory, in those frozen nightmares that never really end. 

He doesn’t say anything. He can’t bear to. The words would make it real. Like this, it’s an idea, a ghost, intangible and untouchable and unquantifiable - Schrödinger’s rapist, Schrödinger’s victim, Schrödinger’s crime and Schrödinger’s consent.

As long as he doesn’t open his mouth, it didn’t happen. As long as he keeps the box closed, nothing ever happened. He buries the box and all that comes with it deep, deep down, and most of the time he can forget. He can smile and he can laugh and he can flirt and he can dance, and it’s okay.

Except sometimes, when he’s out after dark and he can’t see a single star in the sky. Or when his back scrapes against concrete, or he hears a silenced gunshot, or smells jasmine perfume. Sometimes, it’s not something that happened to him, it’s something that is still happening to him, that will never, never stop. On those nights, he bites his tongue until it bleeds. He eats spicy food that makes his mouth burn and shouts out bad puns with edges sharp enough to cut.

It helps, but none of it ever makes him feel like it’s dislodged the key from the back of his throat. And it never will.

**Author's Note:**

> Unfriendly reminder that Dick has canonically been raped twice, and he still hasn't told anyone what Tarantula did to him for 15 years and counting.
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/_mayfriend_) and on [tumblr](http://mayfriend.tumblr.com/)


End file.
